Anchor Tom's Story
by Tigereye77
Summary: Tom reflects after nearly killing John in Ep 5 of Series 1.


**A/N: Just a few clarifications. I'm in the US where they've just finished showing Series 1 of Survivors. I watch the show on BBC America where I just found out that they cut about 10-15 minutes out of each episode so I've missed huge sections from every episode (for example, I've never seen the scene where Tom threatens Al if he makes a move on Anya and in episode 4, they didn't show anything of those guys attacking Greg and Anya at the house, though they did show them in the previews the week before. Go figure.) Anyway, I hope that explains some potential gaps and any strange things that make people say, "They wouldn't say that in England." This is a Tom/Anya story, but more Tom. I shouldn't like Tom, I really shouldn't, but there's just something there and the chemistry between Max Beesley and Zoe Tapper, I think, is off the charts. I hope you enjoy. I'm trying to get the hang of this system.**

Tom Price stalked out into the graveyard, breathing deeply, sucking in the cold air in the vain attempt to quiet the burning rage inside of him. He had killed before, but always dispassionately, almost out of a necessity. Very rarely did he lose his temper anymore. When he was very young he did quite often, but he had learned that keeping a cool head, his emotions in check was the better alternative and would keep him alive a lot longer.

In the past, when he killed, it was always about him or the other guy and the decision was always clear, it would be the other guy to die. There was no malice or hatred or any human emotion involved. It was simply what had to be done to insure his safety or survival. Even when he killed Mr. Wilson who had some misguided need to go on as if everything hadn't been changed with the virus, wanting to lock him up in that food locker, Tom felt no anger towards him. He had killed him so that he, Tom, could go on living. Simple as that.

Today was not simple. It should have been. None of this should have been that complicated. John had taken Anya. They wanted her back and Anya had wanted to come back. It should have been clean and easy. Maybe Greg would have been able to talk John into releasing Anya, but the years of ice he had accumulated over his emotions started to crack when he saw the false prophet holding a knife to her throat. Then she had started screaming in terror and whatever thin shred of control he might have had dissolved into nothingness and he had struck, quickly and viciously. He would have killed John and with pleasure this time as Anya's terrified screams continued to echo through his head.

But then another sound cut through that red haze of rage.

"Tom! No! He's sick!"

Her voice. It brought him back and when he looked into her face and knew she did not want this man, this trash who had come close to ending her life, killed, he couldn't do it. It wasn't what she wanted and while he couldn't verbalize it, Tom knew in those moments that he wanted what Anya wanted.

He had thrown the knife aside and stood up. He couldn't see the expression on Anya's face, her head lowered with her hair hiding her features, but he could read her body language and saw relief. However, he could all too clearly read the expression on his fellow survivors' faces. Abby, Al and Greg, exhibited varying degrees of shock and fear. Abby appeared completely stunned and Al had more than a bit of fear in his eyes, but not as much surprise. The playboy had already a taste of Tom's protective nature where Anya was concerned. Greg was shocked too, but Tom could see the hard, calculating look of suspicion in his eyes as well. Out of all of them, Tom knew the one person he couldn't fool was Greg.

Tom didn't want to deal with any of it or them and he had quickly left the church to gather himself. Everyone wisely decided to leave him alone.

When and how had this bloody happened? Tom wondered. In this new world order Tom saw great opportunities. It was a fresh start for him where his past didn't matter and truth be told, his unique way of thinking and skills were actually quite beneficial. He had no ties, needed no ties and wanted no ties. He only stayed with the group because he saw the wisdom of them sticking together for now.

Getting Anya back was strategic as well. She was a doctor, an invaluable member of the group. Besides, Tom owed her. She had saved his life before. But to lose control like that, that was not him.

He could still hear her screaming and it increased the rate of his pacing. When Tom realized what he was doing, he swore. He was always so contained, so patient and still. Pacing was NOT him. He was losing control and he never lost control.

Tom forced himself over to a raised tomb and sat on it, trying to quell the maelstrom of feelings and jumble of thoughts as he physically tried to still himself.

Would he have acted that way if anyone else had been taken from their group? Probably not. Oh, he would have helped get them back and in some way they all contributed something to the group. But would he have lost control like he did today? No. He didn't when Dexter was threatening Greg and Abby, and in their own ways, they were as valuable to the group's survival as Anya was.

No, it was because this time it was Anya in danger.

"Just ask yourself this, why are you so angry?"

She had posed that question to him when he had, unfairly, attacked her for her past relationship with a woman. What did it matter to him if Anya was queer? Tom didn't agree with that lifestyle and had been known to make crude jokes in the past, but he had no strong feelings about them one way or another, until he heard Anya talking about her relationship with this other woman.

He had been furious. It's as if Anya had been playing some joke on him this entire time. Letting him get close, letting him care about her, only to find out that she had been hiding who she really was. THAT had been the betrayal. Or was it?

No. There was no betrayal. Who was he to judge Anya about keeping secrets? Isn't that what he had been doing all along.

Frustration, anger, a storm of emotions warred within him and then she reached out to touch his cheek. At first, he wasn't sure what she was doing and he started to pull back, but when he felt that soft hand caress his skin, he couldn't help but nuzzle against her palm, the turmoil inside of him settling and the demons calmed down just by the simple act of her touch. He reveled in her touch, the softness of her skin, the smell of her.

He was falling in love with Anya.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Tom had never been in love before. He wasn't even certain if he had even loved anyone. He could be fond of certain people, concerned about them, but love? No, that wasn't in Tom Price.

And someone like Anya, of all people! Oh, she was beautiful enough, but he had known dozens of beautiful women and bedded most of them. But he knew her type. Uni-educated, doctor who came from a "nice" family and never had a hard moment in her life. The type of woman who wanted nothing to do with his kind and where he came from. Stuck-up snob of the worst kind. But Anya wasn't that. She was a woman who had helped him, a complete stranger, lying nearly unconscious on the side of a road. Who shared with him her meager supplies, making him comfortable and tending to his wounds with no expectation of anything for herself.

He remembered the first moment he saw her through a haze of pain as she leant over him and gently touched his body, trying to assess his injuries. In those confusing moments with his brain clouded with pain, he thought an angel had come to him as the sun touched Anya's coppery hair and created a halo. Her gentle smile was offset by a humorous, wry twist to her lips and he heard her say, "You'll live." His last thought before blacking out was that God had done a good job with this one.

When he came to he found himself lying on the soft grass, propped up by a blanket and realized his angel was a very real, very human woman, but no less beautiful. In fact, she reminded him of a painting he once saw. Tom wasn't one to frequent the museums, but it was a long time ago and he had ducked in to get out of the rain. Wandering around aimlessly, he stopped before a painting of a woman with the same coppery highlighted hair and dreamy eyes. It was something some Dutch bloke had painted a couple of centuries ago. Tom watched Anya closely, waiting to see if she sensed any danger from him like the other one had. When he gave her his story of being robbed, he could tell she didn't believe him, but she didn't hold the lie against him either.

What kind of woman was this? Most of the human race had been killed off. Lawlessness was running rampant in the street. She had to be aware of the danger that she, an attractive woman wandering around alone, and a small one at that, was in. Yet, here she was, calmly sitting next to a stranger she knew had just lied to her, but not caring that he did.

Poor innocent lamb, he had thought. Not a bit of survival instinct.

Joining with Abby and Greg had its advantages, but silently, Tom had decided he would keep an extra special eye on Anya. He owed her afterall. Threatening Al, well, that was what any good friend would do. A blind man could see that someone like Al would only wind up hurting Anya. A spoiled, rich playboy who used women and tossed them aside, a wide-eyed lamb like Anya didn't deserve that. He even shared with Anya his thoughts, letting her know that in this new world order, it was up to the strong to protect the weak.

"I'm not weak," she had quietly declared before walking away.

No. It turns out he was the weak one. Weakened by a simple look, a simple touch, the sound of her voice.

And here he sat in his weakened state, showing everyone far more about himself than he wanted them to know. His soft spots, his weaknesses, his demons. The same demons were now wrecking havoc within him, still dancing around his head and heart to the sound of Anya's terrified screams.

A sound drew his attention and he saw his weakness walking towards him, the sun once again touching her coppery hair and creating a halo. Tom had avoided looking at Anya in the church, not wanting to see the same fear, shock and suspicion in her face that he saw in the others. He looked closely for it now but only saw the gentle, serene expression she normally wore. And Tom thought he was the master of hiding things.

She said nothing as she pulled herself up next to him on his solitary perch and he looked away, frustrated that he couldn't read her more. Her touch surprised him. Anya slipped her hand into his. Instinctively, he brought his other hand over it and enveloped it.

He looked into her face. No fear. No loathing. No suspicion. Just simply Anya.

Tom looked away, off into the distance and as before back at the house, the demons within him were quieted again by her simple touch.

With a simple touch, she made the anger, the doubts and fears melt away. The whirlwind of emotions inside of him disappeared as he felt the soft skin and delicate bones of her small hand safely encompassed by his. Anya had become his anchor in this chaotic world keeping at bay the demons he never knew existed.

Anya was right, she wasn't weak. Perhaps he was truly the weak one needing this tiny woman who unwittingly offered him so much.

They said nothing as they continued to sit there, her hand in his, anchoring him.


End file.
